The Mourning After
by Scarlet11
Summary: With Harry and Remus mourning over a common loss, neither is prepared nor willing to begin the first step towards healing.
1. HIS NATURAL HAIR

"The bustle in a house,  
  
The morning after death  
  
Is the solemnest of industries  
  
Enacted upon Earth,--"  
  
Emily Dickinson   
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Story Title: The Mourning After  
  
-- chapter one: HIS NATURAL HAIR --  
  
Molly's thrown me out of the kitchen again.   
  
Really, I may be clumsy, but I can certainly chop some carrots or wash potatoes.   
  
And well, I wasn't really honest before, because she doesn't even throw me out, which would have been much more comforting. When I offer to help, she acts patronizingly gentle, and spews out some reason that I shouldn't have to help. "You've had a long day, dear. Go and relax," she'll say. Or: "I'm sure Remus could use your company and comfort, rather than me." And tonight, she smiled too sweetly at me, and patted my shoulder too soothingly when she gave her excuse. And then she told me to send Ginny in.   
  
I'd be much happier if she just told me I'd ruin her perfect dinner, or butcher the kitchen. Or she could just tell me she doesn't like my new-age, non-house-wife attitude.   
  
But passing by the Library, I see Ginny talking with Ron, and quickly tell her to see her mother down in the kitchen, before heading down the hallway.   
  
But maybe I will go find Remus. . . . I haven't seen him about in a few hours, and you can only take Weasleys for so long. So I take the stairs to the third level of the house, and briefly wonder if he's actually talked to anyone about Sirius's death. Probably not, I decide, but he's always seemed like a person who enjoys his own company.   
  
And then, then I think that maybe I shouldn't burst in on him. If he wanted my company, he would have sought it, and do I really want to spend time being called Nymphadora?   
  
But nonetheless, climbing the stairs, I decide that, no, I won't go searching for Remus, but will maybe head up to the attic and play with Buckbeak for a bit, who is surely missing Sirius just as much as Remus is. . . . Just as much as I am.   
  
Would anyone would have guessed I adored Sirius when I was younger? Even though he was ten years older than me, he was always my favorite relative. When he was at Hogwarts and I was only four or five, whenever our families got together over the summer holidays, he would slip chocolate bars in my pockets, or pull me aside and narrate the most wonderful stories to me. Of course, once he was incarcerated, my mum wouldn't let me associate myself with him, because, after all, the only reason she had let Sirius visit us before was because he had apparently rebelled against his parents and what it meant to be a Black. Yet at ten or eleven, trying to convince my parents that Sirius had to be innocent, I was so sure he could not have killed anyone. I suppose it was only my innocent, un-polluted mind that could see the truth. . . . And then Sirius returned! My favorite relative! But he never really had a chance to slip chocolate into my pocket or pull me aside and tell me great stories. . . . Still, it was nice to talk with Sirius, and sometimes--   
  
But then I feel my foot slip, missing the next stair, and I am tumbling through air, groping for nonexistent supports. I hit the stairs again, and continue to topple, hitting my back and then leg, and twisting my arm a bit. And with a hard thud, I've landed at the base of the stairs, with a rather large pain shooting up my backside.   
  
Groaning slightly, I flip over, so I am lying flat on my stomach, and attempt to rub the pain from my buttocks. But hearing footsteps from above, I pull my self to my knees and sit on my heels, still rubbing at my bottom with one hand, while the other massages a shoulder.   
  
"Nymphadora? Is that you?"   
  
And I groan again. I really don't feel like talking to him right now. "It's Tonks," I grit, hissing as my fingers reach a particularly sore spot on my shoulder.   
  
"Right. Tonks. Did you fall? I heard a thump," he goes on.   
  
Attempting to bring myself to my feet, I wobble, bending slowly up, with that odd feeling at the bottom of my back -- the one where you feel too inflexible, and it's like your bones won't move, so when you're fully upright, it feels tight in your stomach. And my shoulder feels like it's burning, and my head is pounding a bit, so I put my arm out to the wall to support myself, but I misjudged the distance and stumble again. Then Remus, who was still at a few steps above, is now gliding down the last couple steps, and then grasping my upper arm firmly, steadying me. "What happened?" he asks, gently.   
  
But it's not the Molly gentle, where it is just attempts to cover other feelings, but I think he's genuinely worried, so I answer. "I fell down the stairs," I mumble.   
  
His lips smile gently, and he rubs my shoulder a bit. "Are you all right?"   
  
"No," I grumble lowly, so he can't hear me. "Could you do a few healing charms for me?" I ask louder. "I was never very good at them, and I don't feel like loosing a bone. . . Or a spine."   
  
He smiles lightly again, and I know he's good at basic healing, because he has to be; because he's a Werewolf, and most of the time, there was no one to mend his cuts or bruises after transformations. "Of course," he replies, and slides an arm under my shoulders, helping me support my weight.   
  
That tight feeling in my stomach, and the ache in my bottom still hurts, although the pain in my shoulder has faded slightly. With ease, he helps me take a seat on one of the stairs, and then squats next to me. "So," he begins, "what first?" But his eyes, surveying me, catch a bit of blood trickling at my feet. "Where are you bleeding?" he asks.   
  
But I blink, because I didn't even realize I was bleeding. Pulling at the hem of my robes, I find a huge gash on my right knee, and oh! There's that pain. . . . Flinching at the sting as he probes the cut a bit, I continue to rub my shoulder, and attempt to ignore the fact the sitting is making the pain in my lower back and bottom hurt more. As Remus flutters his wand about, and mutters a few incantations, I glance up the carpeted stairs, and see a bit of blood smeared on the wall, and then see a crimson nail protruding from the side of a step.   
  
Glimpsing at my knee when the pain leaves, I now see a thin discoloration sliding across the cap.   
  
"Shoulder?" he asks, as he slips the hem of my robes back to my feet. With my affirmative nod, he leans forward and casts a few spells.   
  
"So," I say filling the silence, as he is pressing his fingers to my collar bone, probably checking for any irregularities. Then he glances up towards my eyes, so I go on. "How have you been?" But he is silent and his fingers have stopped moving at my shoulder. Have I upset him? "Oh, Remus, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. You don't have to answer it, I'll just leave, and finish this up myself. Thanks for--"   
  
"Nymphadora," he cuts in softly, "it's okay."   
  
But I am half-standing now, and rambling. "Sorry to bother you, I'll be -- Oh."   
  
"I've been all right," he answers. But I'm considering him, with his pale, gaunt features, and the obviously tense shoulder muscles. His eyes sag slightly also, and I wonder if he remembers I'm a Metamorphmagus. There's no use lying to a Metamorphmagus about emotions, really. I've learned to pay so much attention to them, adding wrinkles here or tense muscle there when I'm trying to create a certain effect; undercover jobs for both the Ministry and the Order have sharpened these skills greatly. So I know that even the slightest adjustments in the most obscure of body parts tells a secret. And he tries to let a sickly face, tense shoulders, and drooping eyes pass as "all right?" But he must notice my scrutiny, and redirects the conversation. "What about you?"   
  
But I just shrug, and say, "I've been okay."  
  
And there's silence again, until he swallows. "Where else?" he asks  
  
And we're both standing now, and although that tight feeling in my stomach--that one where you feel inflexible and unable to move--is gone, the sharp pains are still firing up my lower back and buttocks. And I'm blushing when I continue. "Err, well, you see. . . The stairs are quite high, and, really, the ground is very hard, so, when, err, when I landed, you see, flat on my arse. . . ." And even though my eyes are flitting about the room, avoiding his face, I can tell he's smiling a bit, and his eyes are dancing. But I gather all my Gryffindor courage, and look up. Seeing him attempting to conceal laughter, I indignantly cry, "Its hurts," and stamp my foot slightly to make my point. Oh, but I regret that because that only makes it worse. And wincing, I turn away from him slightly.   
  
"Oh," he begins lightly, "Nymphadora, stop that. I was only joking."   
  
"Fine," I let out, huffily.   
  
"All right. Well, I can't do it through your robes, you see. So. . ."   
  
"Oh, I have some muggle clothes under this, and besides, these are a bit bloody from that cut. Once second. . ." So I slip my robes over my head, being sure that my skirt or short doesn't cling to it, and even though I'm facing the other way, I can feel Remus's gaze traveling up my body. Yes, all that Auror training does have its physical benefits. . . . But still, he laughs at me and then thinks he can just check me out? Men. . . . Although, I must admit, Remus certainly isn't the worst of them. . . .   
  
But turning back to face him, I smooth out my skirt and blouse and then bite my lip slightly. "Well, what now?"   
  
"Err. . . You'll have to pull your shirt up a few inches. I need access to your lower back." I nod and then turn around, reaching to my sides, and lifting the hem of my blouse a few inches. "Actually, could you just, well, your skirt. . . " And I sigh, but bunch the extra cloth from my shirt to one side, and use the other hand pull the upper hem of my skirt down a small inch with my thumb. Shifting my weight from side to side, I flinch when I feel his wand tap my lower back a bit. "Stop moving," he commands gently, with a hand steadying my hip. So I do, but bite my lip furiously. . . . This is awfully embarrassing, not to mention uncomfortable. And when I feel that familiar tingle up my spine, which I know means my bottom is healed, I let my shirt and skirt fall back to their regular positions along my body, and turn around. "Feel better?" he asks.   
  
And I nod. "Yes, thanks. And sorry about that, but a bruise on my arse is not the most comfortable of things. . . ."   
  
"Yeah, probably not," he answers obviously.   
  
"Dinner should be ready in a little while," I state, moving the conversation away from my butt.  
  
"Oh? Not helping prepare it?" he asks, although it sounds like he knows it is a pointless question.   
  
So I snort obnoxiously, and cross my arms. "Molly Weasley will not let my touch a thing in this kitchen. I'm clumsy, yes," I continue, "but I can cast simple spells to wash dishes or heat water. I'm not incompetent!"   
  
He smiles a little, but it really doesn't seem real. I'm still a metamorphmagus, and he still can't fool me. I even my breathing, though, and continue. "What have you been up too all afternoon, then?"   
  
He shrugs. "Not much." Such a liar!  
  
"Oh?" And then I head up the stairs, determined not to trip this time, when someone is watching.   
  
His light steps follow mine, and I head straight into his room, and flop head-first onto his bed, in the furthest corner.   
  
"Right. Would you like to join me in my bedroom?" he asks with mock formality, although I can only tell this from his voice, as my head is buried deep into his feather pillow.   
  
"Mmm. . . Sure," I mumble, although he cannot hear this. Its smells good, actually, I note. His pillow, that is, although I can't decide what the smell actually is. So I move my head, so it faces him, as he sits in the desk across the room. "You're pillow smells good," I tell him. "Have you washed it recently?"   
  
And he glances back at me. "My pillow?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Right. No, I have not washed it recently."   
  
"Maybe its your hair, then." So I hop off the bed and make my way over towards Remus, who is still sitting in his chair, and I bend my head towards his, and begin to sniff at his hair. "It is your hair!" I exclaim. "What kind of shampoo do you use? Any gels? Or perhaps--" But then I'm not talking, because my eye caught a bunch of pieces of parchment scattered across the face of the desk. "What are those?" I ask, nodding towards the desk.   
  
"Not much," he answers, not looking particularly interested. But his flaring nostrils tell me that he is lying and forcing his face to stay emotionless. And I focus my eyes on the parchments. They are letters, I decide, letters to Harry, written in messy scrawl and signed by Remus Lupin.   
  
"That's not your handwriting," I say automatically, because it's not.  
  
"It's nothing, Nymphadora," he says sharply, and stands up from his seat, briskly gathering the papers into a pile, and striding towards the bookshelf near the end of his bed. As he shuffles to shove the papers into a box on a higher shelf, I kneel on his bed, and tug at his arm slightly.   
  
When I catch his attentions, I say, "Tonks, Remus. Its Tonks. Now. Come sit with me."   
  
Obliging, he takes a seat at the end of the bed, and I sit, cross-legged, pulling the edge of my skirt past my knees, with my back resting against the wall.   
  
"So," he says.  
  
"So," I return, and then look at him.   
  
And there are a lot of things about Remus Lupin that people don't usually catch. First of all, people think he's very stoic, taking everything in stride, and I suppose that's externally true, as he often acts calm. But, if you look at him, and know what to search for, you can tell it is one of the most untrue things in this world. There's a constant throbbing at his neck and flaring of his nostrils, and I know he's forcing himself to stay cool and passive, as emotions fire through his body. Next, he is not as old as he looks. While wrinkles by his eyes and his taught skin suggest he is nearing, maybe over, forty, Remus is but thirty-three. And then, finally, he is lonely. One wouldn't think this originally, though, because he is one of the most friendly and accepting men that many others know. Yet Remus Lupin has walls build high around him, and there are few breaks in the hard stone of which they are made.   
  
But he is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. What was it I want to talk to him about? So I reach for his pillow and hold it to my nose, taking in deep breaths, as he watches me, with raised eyebrows.   
  
Then he is leaning in, and for a moment, I think he is going to kiss me, until his face is buried in my hair, which is just past my shoulders, and Gryffindor red.   
  
When he pulls himself back, he looks a bit odd, like he's trying to figure something out. "Your hair smells good, too," he says.   
  
Happy he has realized, I smile brightly at him. "Of course it does," I exclaim cheerfully. "I use scented hair products and all."   
  
"You know, I've wondered something for while."   
  
"What's that?"   
  
"What is the real color is your hair?"   
  
And I'm a bit floored, not expecting the question at all. But I gather myself quickly, and wave a hand at him, brushing the question aside. "A very common brown, actually."  
  
"Oh, all right, then. I'm sure it's very lovely."   
  
"Right," I say, as I get off the bed. "Now, let's talk about this." I reach for the box he shoved the parchments in early and have a hard time getting it down from the high shelf, although it slips off eventually.   
  
Sitting next to Remus, I have the box in my lap, as I look at him expectantly. "May I?"   
  
With Remus nodding a bit reluctantly, I pull off the brown lid and set it next to me. Above newspaper clippings and pictures, I see a stack of letters, all addressed to Harry. I read one over, and then look questioningly at Remus. "This isn't your handwriting," I say, and he sighs a bit.   
  
"No, it's not." With a look from my direction, he continues. "Well, I've been sending Harry letters regularly over the summer, but he doesn't write back. You see, he only copies, word for word, always, what I have written him."   
  
"Are you sure it's him doing this?"   
  
Nodding, he pulls the box from my lap, and digs to the bottom, pulling out a few scrolls. "These are a few of his essays that I saved when I taught him." And holding a letter against one of the unraveled scrolls, I see the handwriting is identical.   
  
"Never any altercations?"   
  
"No. Always exactly what I have written."   
  
"That's. . . That's very odd."   
  
"Yes, I know."   
  
"Maybe you should go talk to him. . . ."   
  
"If he wanted to talk to me, he would've properly responded. I don't want to push him or make him uncomfortable."   
  
"Remus, sometimes you need to push. Maybe its not what he wants, but its what he needs. He's just lost his--"   
  
"I know full well what he's lost, Nymphadora Tonks," he says steely, with a piercing voice, angry and sad and hopeless all at once. When I look at him, his eyes blazing, he is rising to his feet, hands clenched firmly at his side. "I push him, and I lose him. Do you understand?" And he slams his fist onto his wooden desk, and the kerosene lamp flickers, rattling with the vibrations. "I CANNOT LOSE HIM!" His breaths are coming in ragged now, irregular and harsh, and I wonder if he has a slight case of asthma.   
  
"Remus, I--"   
  
"NO. I Do NOT want to hear you say you're sorry, or that I need to move on. I lost him once! And I've lost him again!" I know he's talking about Sirius now, but I wonder if he knows he is, and dashing towards him, I reach for his hand, but he rips it from my grasp.  
  
"I've lost him too, Remus! I miss him too!" I cry.   
  
And then, as his eyes flicker, fearful now, and he takes a step back, pauses, and then launches towards me. He throws his arms around my neck, and lets his weight fall upon my shoulders. "I can't DO it!" he insists. "I CAN'T DO IT!"   
  
And I stumble under his weight a bit, my ears ringing from his shout, but I regain my balance, and throw my own arms around his chest, tugging him closely. And he slumps more now, and warm droplets burn my shoulder, as my own eyes begin to water.  
  
"I miss him," I mumble now, as he rambles quietly, desperately, about Sirius and Harry, and his inability to do it, to do it all.   
  
I think you've finally realized, Remus Lupin. I'm a Metamorphmagus, and there is no way you can conceal emotion from me. And I can smell your hair when your head is buried in my neck, Remus, and I'm happy its your genuine, light brown. I am crying and you are crying, and your tears fall in my hair, as my own fall in yours, and I think I'm going to let my hair be natural tomorrow morning, and I won't change me eyes either; I'll proudly wear those freckles I've always despised. Just know I'm doing it for you.   
  
Then, as I hold you close, you muttering insecurities and fears, the door bursts open, and that overly-sweet voice stings the air. "Remus!" it calls. "Its time for--" I pull my blotchy, tear-strained face from Remus and my eyes narrow automatically.   
  
"Molly," I begin, upset with her for interrupting Remus and I, angry with her for acting so false and cheerful, and still a bit miffed with her for kicking me out of the kitchen. "Remus and I won't be attending dinner tonight." And he is silent now, but I hold tighter, and his hands pull at my hair.   
  
"Oh," she says, surprised with my hard tone. "All right."   
  
And she leaves.   
  
And Remus lets out an anguished cry.   
  
And I hug him tighter.   
  
Gently backing him towards the bed, I pry his hands from my hair, although he still clutches at my neck. Climbing onto the bed, I sit against the wall, and he sits by me, lost in my hair and shoulders, sitting, too, but leaning hard against me.   
  
Once his tears and howls fade, although my own eyes are still glossy, I pull away, and move him about until he lies down, with his head in my lap.   
  
His eyes are shut tight, but I know he is still awake. "You know," I begin, knowing that he will agree, "you should go see Harry tomorrow."   
  
His eyes flutter open slightly, and he murmurs, "I should."   
  
"It will. . . . It will help you both," I continue as I stroke his cheek, and reach for one of his hands, warm and slightly sweaty.   
  
"I will."   
  
I'll be okay, I know. Remus knows it, too. I've mourned for Sirius Black already, long ago, when I was but ten years old, and trying to tell my parents he was innocent. He was dead to me, then, and he is dead to me now. But still, still it hurts.   
  
Yet holding Remus closely, and gently running my fingertips through his graying hair, and tracing light circles across his chest, I know his pain is greater. Is this what he looks likes after a transformation? So tired, curled tightly, knees raised high to his chest. . . Is this how he looks after he returns? His own hands move, now, at his sides, until they reach my own, which is still at his chest, and one laces its fingers with mine, as the other cups my knuckles.   
  
His grip is tight, now, but soon his fingers twitch, and the grasp begins to fade. . . . Lighter and lighter. . . .  
  
And he falls asleep. Eventually, I do also, still sitting, with my back propped against the wall, and I dream lightly, of cool mountains, and deep streams, and large oak trees. Light eyelashes flutter about my mind all night, and even sleeping, I feel him.   
  
But when I wake up, I am lying, wrapped tightly under the worn blankets of Remus's bed, with my face buried deeply in his white pillow.   
  
He has already left, I know, to spend the day with Harry. But he shifted me so I was comfortable under the blankets, so I smile.  
  
With my head still deep in the pillow, still in the fragrance of Remus's light hair, I shut my eyes tightly, and then my hair is that common brown, and my eyes are that unnatural shade of a sunburned gray. I even have those tiny, tiny auburn freckles speckled about my nose and cheeks.   
  
And I wonder if Molly will let me help her with breakfast. . . .   
  
--------  
  
A/N: I trying to decide if I should continue with this. . . . Not as a Remus/Nymphadora piece, but as a Harry and Remus bonding sort of piece. Originally, that is what I intended to do, although I was swept away by the plot. If I do, the next chapter will be a Molly Weasley POV, then a Vernon Dursley, followed by a Remus Lupin, and finally a Harry Potter POV. Most of them will still have R/N elements, though, especially the Remus POV, although it will not be the main part of the story.   
  
Should I continue with this? Any feedback? Review! Thanks! :)   
  
--Scarlet Writer//Scarlet11 


	2. FOR THE SON

"The bustle in a house,  
  
The morning after death  
  
Is the solemnest of industries  
  
Enacted upon Earth,--"  
  
Emily Dickinson   
  
Story Title: The Mourning After  
  
-- chapter two: FOR THE SON --  
  
Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning, I used to think.   
  
Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning, I still think.   
  
I think this as I roll from my spot besides Arthur in our bed at Grimmauld place, slip a shawl over my nightgown and head downstairs in my ripping slippers. Ready for the sun, I think as I stretch my back. Up before the morning's dawning, I remember as I study the gray skies on the other side of the kitchen's glass windows.   
  
The house is silent, of course, and I guess it is only six o'clock, perhaps six-thirty. And I smile as I dig in the cabinets above my head for a proper mixing bowl. Pancakes, I decided, will do for this morning. After finding one (tucked in the drawer beside the sink), I gather the needed ingredients and dump them into a bowl. Muttering a few words, automatic after so many years, a batter begins to form, and a wooden spoon churns the contents freely.   
  
Nodding affirmatively, I begin some of the common chores needed to be done to such a house as Grimmauld place; especially now, after that horrible little house-elf was found dead in his sleeping quarters. Hermione would be terrified, I think as I fold up a pile of laundry, frequently casting a de-wrinkle charm. Satisfied with my family's clothes, stacked neatly in four piles (for Ron, Ginny, Arthur, and myself), I return to the kitchen, finding Remus sniffing the batter carefully.   
  
For a moment, I can only see him and Nymphadora pressed closely, his form trembling, and her eyes red. My own face flushes in remembrance, as I instinctively turn back towards the door. Halfway out of the room, though, I gain my wits once more, and remind myself that they are adults. Both of them. Even Tonks, with her clumsiness and wild hair. Even Remus. Remus, who just lost his best friend. And they surly can make their own decisions. It's not as if they were having sex at my kitchen table. In fact, they may not even have had sex at all. Right, they could have spent the night sleeping. Or crying. Or mourning. Sleeping, and crying, and mourning together, and making decisions together, also.   
  
Sirius was an adult, too, I remind myself. He made his own decisions, also.   
  
It's funny how many of his decisions I disagreed with, especially those regarding Harry. My Harry. Ron's Harry. Ginny's Harry. Our Harry. I suppose he was Sirius's Harry also. . . I suppose. But he was our Harry first. So, yes, Sirius was an adult, who was capable of making decisions.   
  
Perhaps not the best decisions, though.   
  
Perhaps: A very strong uncertainty.   
  
Because, perhaps, he made horrible, horrible, morbid decisions. And perhaps is a very versatile word.   
  
As I begin to stop myself from walking out of the kitchen, I bite my lip, wondering what I really thought of Sirius.   
  
He loved Harry. There is no perhaps in that. He loved Harry so much; more than himself. But did he love Harry more than James? More than the memory of James? To him, was Harry just his father? Because, yes, he loved James also, as I know from the first war against Voldemort. Even in the past months at Grimmauld place, before he died, I could feel his love for James when the past was spoken of. But was there separation between such different people? Perhaps. . . Sometimes, when he spoke of Harry, and how he could not wait for the upcoming summer, that which has arrived without his presence, and when he spoke of teaching him to be an Animagus, and living with him, and pulling all sorts of pranks on Snape and Moody, and even Dumbledore. . . Sometimes, for Sirius, the world stopped when he went to Azkaban, it even may have receded in time. . . Harry was James. . . Time paused, leaving James to freeze in his youth and liveliness. . .   
  
Other times, though, James did die and die and die. . . Time swept by so quickly for Sirius. James died, Harry grew and grew, and was being hunted by Voldemort. Sirius was responsible for his best friend's son. For Harry. Harry was Harry. . . Time had sprinted through existence, leaving James to die, and Harry to grow. . .   
  
Perhaps.   
  
And I didn't like Sirius, really. Because those times when time had frozen for him. When Harry was James. So even when Harry was Harry, I believed Sirius to be irrational and immature and irresponsible and cocky and. . .   
  
And a horrible parent for Harry.   
  
Or. . . Or perhaps. . .   
  
Did I just see that when Harry was Harry, and even when Harry was James, Sirius would do anything for him?   
  
No, no. . . Harry didn't, and doesn't, need another --  
  
No.   
  
And as I try to push all thought of Sirius from my mind, I wonder why I do so, and shift, so that I face Remus.   
  
Remus. Now, what about him? He is responsible. He saved Harry. Oh yes, I know he was the one holding Harry, keeping him from running after Sirius at the Department of Mysteries.   
  
Sirius.   
  
What would Sirius have done if it was Remus falling towards the veil?   
  
Easy. Easy.   
  
Sirius would have lunged towards the veil, towards Remus, falling in, wanting to save, but only falling, falling. . .   
  
And Harry. He would have done the same for Harry.   
  
But what if Harry was running for Remus? Would he have held Harry back? Or would he have ran for Remus as well?   
  
Would he. . .  
  
But that did not happen. Sirius fell through the veil. Sirius is dead.   
  
And Remus lives, standing now, setting the table silently, swiftly, not noticing my presence.   
  
"Would you like pancakes?" I ask.   
  
Then his wand is pointed at my brow, read to cast. Realizing it is only me, though, I hear him let air through his teeth, as he slips his wand back into his holster.   
  
"Good morning, Molly," he begins, walking towards me. "You frightened me."   
  
I'd say so, I think briefly, my heart still racing from the moment's threat. "And good morning to you, Remus. Pancakes, then?" With a nod, he takes a seat, as I quickly bake three lumps of batter. Thinking better of it, and remembering he was not present at dinner the night before, I quickly cast the spell at another blob of the bubbly batter. There: and they're pancakes Slipping the plate in front of him, I take a seat across the table, hoping I might be able to offer a bit of early-morning table conversation.   
  
"Remus," I begin after a moment, just as he says my own name. "Oh, go ahead dear, I say."   
  
He's not one to argue about such mundane topics, so he smiles gracefully and continues. "You walked in on Tonks and I last night."   
  
And I nod.   
  
"Well, you did not walk in on anything inappropriate."   
  
"No, no, of course not, Remus. Sex is a very natu-"   
  
"No, that is not what I meant," continues, cutting me off. Lifting his amber eyes from his pancakes, he looks directly at me. "Molly, Tonks and I did not have sex."   
  
"Oh, of course," and why is it that I feel reprimanded? Perhaps because I was . . Perhaps. "But you slept together? I mean, not slept together, but slept together?"  
  
And he nods once at me, and looks down, looking slightly ashamed. "Remus?" I ask gently. "Remus?" I enquire again, when he does look up. Sighing slightly, I shift in my seat. "It's okay, you know."   
  
Mourning, I mean. He knows this. I know this.   
  
And he nods, but he's just moving his head. "It's not wrong to mourn or feel lonely or cry."   
  
He looks up at me, with a very strange expression on his face, any feeling of inferiority I held previously are lost to the care and worry I feel now. I wonder for a moment what his expression means. He feels guilty, I surmise. For what? Remus is logical, and certainly knows it is okay for a man, even fully grown, to express emotion, to cry.   
  
"I know, Molly," he says, and then looks down again. There is silence, and I want to say something, but don't know, exactly, what needs to be said. So I'm silent, and I'm almost sure he's thinking about something. Perhaps something important. "That's not-" he begins, but then stops talking, takes a breath, and collects himself. "What I mean, is that I understand this. It's just strange. I wasn't lonely last night, but then again, I still was." Then directs his eyes pointedly in my eyes and continues matter-of-factly: "I am not used to being comforted. I am not accustomed to crying. I am not prone to displays of emotions. In fact, I've always been proud of my ability to remain calm and rational. I feel guilt towards myself for breaking this streak. Then I feel guilt towards Tonks." I am startled by his openness and his straightforward approach to the topic; it's as if we are discussing the anatomy of a flobberworm. . .   
  
"Tonks is so much younger than me," he continues, and looks towards to door as he speaks. "Over a decade younger than me. Although last night was strictly an action between friends, I have awoken with a deeper friendship with Nymphadora, one that I would not be upset to see progress. I fear I will find myself liking her in a way a man my age should not like a girl her age. I feel as if I took advantage of her kindness last night, causing her pain and tears, and wasting her time. Tonks is intelligent and surely realized the meaning of her actions. I know I did not take advantage of her, for she would have said or done something. All she did, she did willingly. But yet I feel as if I am asking too much of her. We weren't even very close friends, so I feel as if I have burdened her with my melodramatic emotions and mourning."   
  
He sighs, then, and buries his tired face into his hands. I notice the gray interlaced with his light hair. It's as gray as Arthur's. . . Tonks is as old as Charlie. Then he shifts his face, so that he is able to look me in the eye. "I realize I am being irrational. Tonks is aware of what went on last night, and the consequences. If she felt uncomfortable, she would have cast me away. Consolation is a natural and humanistic action, just as is mourning. I feel as if the particular actions committed are not worthy of guilt, yet the situation as a whole, with all the details included, becomes a shameful doing for me. No, not shameful, I suppose, for I do not regret my actions. Yet, there is a guilt. A guilt I feel is stemming from betrayal and immorality."   
  
And then, there is silence again, and I'm searching for words; I'm even searching for thoughts. The tone in his voice makes me feel uncomfortable, and the words, meanings, formed from those words seem wrong in the context. The separation. . . The analysis. . . The strained look and throaty sighs are not a man pondering his emotions, but that of one unable to solve a text-book problem.   
  
Is that healthy? I wonder briefly.   
  
Focusing, I attempt to gather all he has told me; he feels guilty, but net regretful. . . He feels that he should not have burdened Tonks with his emotional needs, creating a bond between the two that should not exist between such people. . . And slowly, it arises in my head, the situation takes its form, murky first, until the details brush away the clouds.   
  
Right.   
  
I slip out of my chair, as Remus rests his forehead on table. Once I am kneeling by him, I nudge his face towards mine. "Remus," I say, "Remus, if anyone deserves emotional release and support, and even love, if that is what it comes to, it's you. All I can do is reinforce your own knowledge: you aren't wrong in mourning or crying. And you aren't wrong in doing so in Tonk's arms. If she is the one in which you find comfort, then go to her. As you've said, she is intelligent and capable, if she feels at all uncomfortable, I'm sure she'll tell you."   
  
As he nods, he smiles a bit, and then takes my hand in his. "Thank you, Molly," he tells me, with his gentle eyes, the amber around his pupils glossing, wilting. "Thank you so much."   
  
His kindness embarrassing me, his forwardness, his directness shattering my heart, I return to my feet, my own eyes tearing slightly. Allowing him to eat in silence, I return to my cooking, glancing out the window. After setting a mixing spell on another bowl of batter, I watch the rays of the pink sun break through the horizon in the tiny window at the top of the wall. They sky is gray, but cloudless, as the sun peaks above the treeline, winking at me, reminding me, congratulating me: You're a good mother, it tells me.   
  
And I smile as I think. Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning. . .   
  
"Molly?" I hear Remus ask, breaking me from thought. "Molly?" he says again.   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Do you like Tonks?"   
  
What? Do I like Tonks? Well. . . "Yes, why do you ask?"   
  
For a moment, he looks skeptical, his eyes prodding my own.   
  
He doesn't fully believe me. "Of course," he says. "Of course you like her. We all like her: she's an asset to the Order. But do you like her?"   
  
"Remus, I don't know why you're-"   
  
"Molly, would you allow one of your sons to date her?"   
  
"I hardly think--"   
  
"Why wouldn't you?"  
  
"Because!" I snap, angrily. He certainly does not have the right to interrogate me! I've always been perfectly civil towards Nymphadora Tonks. Maybe if she were a little more capable in the kitchen, or around the house, I'd be able to do a bit of housework with her. If she weren't so busy listening to her loud music, and making her hair neon green, or seducing men. . .   
  
She doesn't seduce men, does she?   
  
But she does listen to loud music and have green hair! Sometimes.   
  
She's not a Weasley, I want to say to him. She doesn't cook or clean, like I do, like my mother did, like Ginny will. . . Like Ginny would have until she was introduced to Nymphadora Tonks. She doesn't pin hair long hair up, she doesn't wear aprons or nursing robes, but jeans and T-shirts. . . What she feels like wearing. She's out of Hogwarts and has never had a serious boyfriend. . . Flirting with and teasing everyone: all of my sons, Moody, Remus, Kingsley, even Harry! She just doesn't--  
  
"She's got a Weasley heart," Remus says, quietly, seeming to understand what I am thinking. "It's so big, like yours and Arthur's, and Ron's, and all you're children's. Even beneath the blue hair, it beats, red and strong. . ."   
  
But don't look at him, but shuffle back over the my batter, ready to be cooked. Firing baking spells, I still ignore his presence.   
  
Finally, after stacking all the pancakes neatly in piles on ceramic plates, I face him, completely calm, to find him still watching me, with keen, pondering eyes. Straitening my shoulders, and untying my apron from around my waist, I speak to him: "You were up early this morning." Ready for the sun, I think.   
  
"Oh yes, I am."   
  
"Especially for a Sunday."   
  
"Yes."   
  
"What do you plan on doing."   
  
Now, he looks in square in the eys: "I am going to visit with Harry for the day."   
  
My body fills with happiness, and I'm jumpy now, so happy that Harry will have company, and that someone has finally taken initiative. And maybe. . . Maybe Ron could come along. Harry could certainly use a good friend. And Ginny, too! Perhaps, perhaps it could offer something Harry and Ginny could bond over! Distract her from that Dean Thomas. Yes, yes, this is perfect! A chance for Harry to notice my Virginia.  
  
"Wonderful!" I exclaim, rushing towards Remus, and clasping my hands from his upper arm. "Wonderful!" I repeat. "I'll just wake Ron and Ginny, and they can be ready within the half-hour! They'll be so excited."   
  
"Molly, I don't think--"   
  
"Will you reheat the pancakes while I wake them?"   
  
"Don't bother--"   
  
"They may even be ready in ten mintues, they could eat at the Dursley's, and--"   
  
"Molly!"   
  
"What IS it, Remus?"   
  
"I don't want Ron or Ginny to come."   
  
What is he talking about? Of coure Harry's best friend and Ginny should go! What else does he need more? When a Godfather dies, all a growing boy needs is a. . .   
  
Parent.   
  
Oh. Right.   
  
Sometimes rises up my throat, unsettling my stomach and making me dizy. Suddenly, I find myself mad, angry with Remus. I want to tell him he shouldn't go see Harry. That we, the Weasleys, should go visit him, bring him here… Cheer him up.   
  
Not him, me. Us. Our Harry.   
  
Oh. Oh. . .   
  
Is this it? I see Remus and think of Sirius, and the same resentment builds in me. Harry was ours first, I think. Not yours. Not Sirius's. Before there was you, the was us. There was me. He's like a Weasley.   
  
"Molly?" he asks, so gently. So fatherly. So perfectly. "Molly?"   
  
"Yes," I say, dizy, and nauseous, sick with myself, and Remus, and Sirius, and . . .   
  
And. "Yes?" I say. Harry needs Remus, I think, like he needed Sirius. But what about me? Doesn't he need me?   
  
"Well," I say, forcing a smile, forcing happiness. "Well, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful father figure," I say. "I'm sure."   
  
And he looks at me strangely. "I just want to offer Harry some support--"   
  
"Like a father," I say, and laugh nervously. Then I bite my lip. "Well, up with the sun, right? You're sure ready for the morning. Fits my qualifications!" And I force a laugh again. "I always say 'Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning.'"   
  
"Well, you're certainly ready for more than one sun," he say, and I'm a bit confused about his words. "I'm sure ready for Harry. But I've missed the morning's dawning. I'll be there for it's duration, though. And after, I hope. Either way, I'm ready to support Harry. We're ready for the morning together."   
  
He does not make sense at all. He was up at least an hour before the sun rose: he certainly did not miss the morning's dawning.   
  
"Well," he says, rubbing my shoulder a bit, "I must be off. A new days awaits. And thank you. Thank you for talking to me. I appreciate it."   
  
He's walking out the kitchen door now. His words do not make sense.   
  
He turns around and says, just before he leaves, "And he's yours, too."   
  
And he's gone.  
  
I stand there, wondering. . . My children walk in, and Tonks as well, lowering and lowering the stack of pancakes, and I still stand. Weird, I think. Weird. His words didn't make sense. "You're certainly ready for more than one sun," he said. More than one sun?   
  
Then, then watching my family eat their breakfasts smiling and laughing and happy, I think I get it. Sons. No suns.   
  
He thought I meant sons.   
  
Ready for the son. Heh.   
  
Right.   
  
Oh, and up before the mourning's dawning.   
  
Right. And for all this time, for so many years, I thought I meant ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning.   
  
Funny how that works.   
  
Strange how Remus knew what I meant within seconds, while it took me decades to figure out.   
  
Strange and funny, but I'm not laughing. I'm not even giggling.   
  
Right, but all I'm thinking is that it took me decades to figure out what I meant, with the help of Remus, and that Tonks is only one decade younger than Remus. Only, only. . .   
  
Walking over to her, I see she's sporting brown hair, and gray eyes, and freckles. And is this Nymphadora? I wonder. Somehow, I miss the green and blue and stripes and spikes.   
  
Somehow.   
  
"Later," I begin, "later, would you like to help me with lunch?"   
  
She's startled, I know. But she's flashing white teeth and curved lips.   
  
Yes, a fine little family they would make. Strange, but not that laughing strange. Just strange, the one that makes you feel dizzy and nauseous, but happy and fluttery. . .   
  
Yeah, they'd make a splendid little family, supporting, loving each other. Remus, Harry, and Tonks. Yeah. . .   
  
True Weasleys, with red, swelling hearts, and ready for the son, and the mourning's dawning, just as much as they'll be ready for the sun and the morning's dawning.   
  
Yeah. . .   
  
He was still mine when he was Sirius's, and he'll still be mine now.   
  
And Tonks is nodding slightly at my previous questions. "Perhaps," she says, but from the smile on her face, and the surprised twinkle in her eyes, and that excitement crawling through the sleepiness, I know that this time, perhaps is not such a versatile word, but this time, rather, her "Perhaps," means "Yes, yes, I'd love that, Mrs. Weasley."   
  
Molly, I correct her mentally. Molly.   
  
And "Good morning", I think, as Tonks still nods, "The sun is looking bright," my mind murmurs, as I glace at the table, towards my sons and the mourning of the Weasley family.   
  
  
  
A/N: Well, yeah, so I decided to continue it. I'm not sure if I really like this Molly POV chapter, though. . . I feel like there's something missing, and it just doesn't connect. . . Hm, well. . . I just don't like the nonclickiness of it. But I was getting bored with it, and wanted to move on. . .   
  
Sorry it's been so long! And thank you all for such wonderful reviews!  
  
Hopefully a sooner update next time. . .   
  
Scarlet Writer/Scarlet11 


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